


Sta(i)rs

by skybone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Feels, Fluff, pentilyet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time, and changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sta(i)rs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [montparnasse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/montparnasse/gifts).



> So here it is: my first pentilyet story. Enjoy!

It is winter in Skyhold. Time moves quickly; urgency drives it, and shivering need, and there are never enough hours in the day. They have descended or ascended like a flock of disheveled, storm-torn birds, feathers awry or broken or missing, attempting to nest in a barren tree with a few twigs and straw that was past its best years ago, frantic and fragile and forlorn. It seems impossible, but somehow they are doing it.

They scatter to the rooms and barracks Josephine allocates them, taking possession as the repairs allow. The Inquisitor has finally moved into what will someday be the largest, grandest apartments, but even here there are still piles of debris and building supplies to avoid, and the other Councillors have fared even worse. In some ways it seems unlikely that they will ever make anything of this forgotten, broken place. But the foundations are mostly solid, and so are the main loadbearing walls, and their determination sets buttresses where they are needed. It will do.

It is colder camping in stone halls than in a tent, somehow. Cassandra finds a temporary space in the loft of the building that becomes the armoury; it is dark and the grime from the forges gets into everything, but it is warm and once one gets used to the incessant noise, almost restful. She would put up with a great deal more than grime and noise to stay warm in that first winter, and it is far better than the drafty walls of the pompous, cold room Josephine wants to allocate her, which seems to her to be holding its nose against the invasion of the Inquisition in the manner of some of the more narcissistic Orlesian nobles the Seeker has met. In the end she finds the loft suits her, and tells the Ambassador that she is in no need of any other apartment.

Josephine is clearly bemused by her choice; Cassandra is not sure if she has caused offense by her preference. But she likes the Ambassador, and does not want to upset her, so she attempts to explain, and in the end Josephine seems to understand despite her clumsy words. She greatly admires the Ambassador's skill with language, and marvels at the way she can turn words into a weapon, a clarification, an obfuscation, a benediction. (She herself tends to gruff awkwardness when eloquence is expected of her, and she has certainly not told Josephine of this admiration.)

It is midwinter day, or rather, the evening of midwinter day, and the stars are already showing through the holes in the roof. Cassandra is running up the stairs to Josephine's apartments, carrying a basket, but the stars make her pause and stare. They seem clearer here on the mountain's heights, and tonight they set paths through the heavens and glitter with a shattering beauty that makes her catch her breath.

Josephine has said something in passing, wistfully, about missing the foods traditional in Antiva at this time of year. Cassandra thinks that Josephine works harder than she should, spending far more hours at a desk than is reasonable for any normal person. Cassandra thinks that someone who works so hard should be entitled to a few simple pleasures, and so although it has been years since she has given anyone a midwinter gift, the Seeker has wheedled and bullied the cooks, and somehow from their scant supplies they have prepared a few Antivan treats. She does not ask herself why she has chosen to do this; she tells herself that it is simply a time to celebrate the year's turning, and that the Ambassador will enjoy the treats. And in truth, there is much to celebrate; most of them survived Haven, thanks to the Inquisitor's efforts, and Corypheus has been thwarted in at least some of his intentions. Cassandra knows that although everything is moving quickly now and the stars wheel overhead like streamers of dragon's breath, the world is still in its place, and with Andraste's benison under the Maker's will they will prevail.

She runs up the last few steps and stops to knock on the heavy door; they are not so close that they would enter each other's quarters uninvited. A warm voice replies; she opens the door, and crosses the threshold.

*           *           *

It is spring. Josephine, engaged in complex negotiations, has asked for the insights of the Left and Right Hands, and so they have gone to meet with Leliana in the Rookery. Cassandra, following her up the narrow stone stairs, notices the sway of hips beneath the satin, and time slows. She can see fabric sliding over fabric, and wonders how many layers of clothing Josephine actually wears, and if they are all satin, or if there is silk beneath.

She feels her mouth go dry.

 _This is foolishness_ , she tells herself. _This is... I have been reading too many scandalous novels_. In the meeting she forces herself to concentrate, and avoids looking at the Ambassador. She feels stiff and awkward, and hopes that neither of them notice; but she is always stiff and awkward, she thinks, and so they probably will not.

There are more things she notices after that meeting, when she encounters the Ambassador. The slight parting of her lips. (She cannot seem to stop watching Josephine's lips, though she tries, and consequently spends far too much time staring at Josephine's feet, and then is distracted by wondering what they would look like when they are not encased in slippers of gold.) The endearing way that Josephine waves her hands when she gets excited. The freckles that sprinkle her cheek like stars; Cassandra wonders if there are freckles elsewhere, a universe spun across the softness of her skin, and rebukes herself for wondering.

Then early one morning, as the ring of night's shadow descends before the pale pink and gold and blue lines of day and takes the last stars with it, Josephine smiles at her, passing her in the training yard, and asks her if she will come to tea later in the day. Cassandra, saying yes, smells something green and growing, and feels an unfamiliar emotion.

It is only after some time that she recognizes it as happiness.

*           *           *

It is summer, and still hot even this late in the evening. The Ambassador has asked her to dine, and in the scorching heat of the past few days they have all taken to dining after sunset. It is cooler today, but Cassandra still sweats as she climbs the stairs to Josephine's room.

There is a cool breeze from the windows past the apartment's door, a blessedly welcome relief. The Ambassador—

The Ambassador is wearing considerably less than she does when she is in her office, dressed formally. She is wearing a loose sleeveless tunic over calf-length trousers, and she is barefoot. "I hope you do not mind my informality, Seeker," she says. "It is so hot that it is difficult to be comfortable in more layers."

"Of course not," says Cassandra. The looseness of the cloth does not accentuate Josephine's shape the way her fashionable clothes do, but the fabric is thin and allows... hints. Cassandra swallows, feeling rather overheated and momentarily wishing that she had worn less herself. But then she is suddenly thankful that she did not. Her clothing may be stiff and too heavy for the weather, but its familiarity is comforting.

She accepts the glass Josephine offers. "We drink this wine in Antiva in hot weather," says the Ambassador; "it is very refreshing on a hot day." Cassandra sips. It is fruity and sweet and has been chilled with ice from Skyhold's cellars. It is very refreshing indeed. She drinks again, thankful.

Josephine has assembled a tasty plate of cold foods to share—she says that it is too hot for anything else, and Cassandra agrees—and they nibble while drinking and talking. Or more accurately, while Josephine talks, and Cassandra listens. There are freckles on Josephine's shoulders, and they disappear under the tunic. The lines of her feet are delicate and fine, the arches high and elegant. The Ambassador gets to her feet to retrieve the carafe and refill their glasses, and curves press against fabric as she moves. Cassandra has completely lost track of the conversation, and does not notice when Josephine ceases to speak. It is only when those slightly parted lips curve into a smile that she realizes, and flushes.

"Your mind is elsewhere, Seeker," says the Ambassador, but she seems amused rather than offended.

"I apologize," says Cassandra, feeling a trickle of sweat run down into her collar. "I—"

"I expect it is the heat," says Josephine. "Will you not take off your jacket? You would be much more comfortable without it."

"I—" says Cassandra, "I suppose I would," and begins to undo the fasteners with clumsy hands.

She has started to shrug free of the jacket when Josephine moves to help, and the back of her hand brushes the fine hairs on the back of Cassandra's neck, and then the Ambassador tugs the leather free of Cassandra's suddenly nerveless arms. "There," says Josephine, hanging the jacket on a chair. "That will be better. Roll up your sleeves if it helps; there is no reason to suffer unnecessarily."

Cassandra feels frighteningly exposed in her linen shirt, which is ridiculous; it is not as if she is not decently dressed. Fully dressed. Though her throat feels unnervingly bare without the protection of the jacket's collar. But Josephine's suggestions carry an unexpected note of authority. She rolls up her sleeves, and feels the slight breeze on her forearms. It _is_ better. She drinks the cold wine, and Josephine refills her glass. By the time they finish eating she is much less light-headed, or more. She can see the first star of the evening now, rising just over the battlements.

"Now," says Josephine, "here is dessert. This is also an Antivan speciality." And she fetches a plate with some kind of confection on it, something with pastry dripping with honey, and curls up casually beside Cassandra on the settee, and tucks her feet out of sight under herself, and places the plate between them. "Try this," she says, holding a morsel before Cassandra's lips.

Cassandra obediently opens her mouth and takes the morsel, and her lips touch Josephine's fingers as she does. The dessert is sweet and nutty and indecently good. She is not certain what her expression shows, or whether it is caused by the taste of the dessert or the taste of Josephine.

Josephine smiles at her, eyes half-lidded, and sucks the honey off her fingers. "Do you like it?"

"Yes," says Cassandra hoarsely. "Very much." And then, because she has had much more to drink than usual, and because although she may be awkward she is not a fool, she says, "You know exactly what you are doing to me, don't you?"

And Josephine smiles. "Oh, I do hope so." And she sets the plate on the floor and twists lithely, coming onto her knees. She puts one hand on the back of the settee to steady herself and leans forward. There is more than enough time for Cassandra to escape if she wishes, to stutter excuses; but she does not move, only stares into the Ambassador's amber eyes, and stops breathing, and then Josephine's palm touches the bare skin on the side of her throat, her fingers tracing just along the jawline, and Josephine's lips touch hers, soft and warm and honey-sweet and _wanting_ , and the stars have descended from the sky to fill the space between them.

And time stops.

*           *           *

It is autumn. Cassandra is walking up the stairs to Josephine's apartments, Josephine's hand tucked under her arm. They take the steps slowly; they are discussing things said at the formal dinner with the representatives of the Orlesian court, and Josephine is teasing Cassandra about whether she would stun the nobles into uncharacteristic silence if she could but for once be persuaded into wearing Orlesian fripperies instead of armour. (Only if she was allowed to carry her sword, Cassandra responds dryly.)

It is late in the season and late in the day, a chilly evening; the stars and new moon cast only the slightest light in Josephine's rooms. Cassandra bends to the hearth to light Josephine's fire as the Ambassador lights candles, and sees the warm red light spread. She puts her breastplate on its stand beside the door, next to where her sword and shield hang on the wall rack, and takes the small glass Josephine offers her and joins her on the settee before the fire.

It has been a long time since she slept in her loft, though she still works there at her table. There have certainly been nights spent there, generally instigated by Josephine in unexpected and intriguing ways and taking the Seeker by delighted surprise, and when they have slept there Josephine has never once complained about Cassandra's narrow pallet. But Cassandra wishes to give the world to Josephine, and more, not the inconvenience and discomfort of a dingy loft, and things are so much more pleasant for two in the Ambassador's bed, especially for two inclined to boisterous activities.

The room still has an edge of chill, and she feels Josephine shiver; without asking, she gets a quilt from the bed, and tucks it round the Ambassador, and stretches a warm arm round her shoulder. It was the day of the harvest festival, and even before the formal dinner they have been sampling the harvest, eating the special foods prepared by the vendors to tempt them, and drunk the harvest wines and ales, and now they are sated and sleepy. Everyone within reach of Skyhold has returned for the festival, other than those absolutely prohibited from it by the necessities of security, and they have had a chance to see friends that duties have separated from them for some time. In truth, they would have far preferred that company to that of the nobles, had their duty permitted it.

Josephine smiles at Cassandra, tucked into the curl of her arm, and Cassandra kisses Josephine, lazily, comfortably, and time slides by slowly, like a river reaching the flats and spreading to the sea, like stars slowly manifesting in the night sky when night falls; not always visible, but never absent. And in the great bed, later, tides surge and shooting stars fall, and the heartbeat they share goes on and on, slow and steady.

*           *           *

It is winter. They have been here a full year. Josephine is waiting at the top of the stairs for her, and looks at her with a face schooled to calm and eyes that shriek, and opens her arms.

Too soon, too soon; the pulse of her heart, of Skyhold's heart, says hurry, hurry. There is only a moment and she must turn away. Josephine has not been entirely able to stop her tears, though she has tried; when she pulls away Cassandra can feel the wetness on her cheek. She swallows. She must be strong for Josephine.

No. It does not matter, not now. She catches Josephine and pulls her back again, clutching her desperately, holding her so tightly that it surely must make it hard to breathe; she hears the huff of breath driven from Josephine's lungs by the metal of her breastplate. But Josephine does not protest, and her grip is almost as tight.

"You know that I will always come back to you if I can," says Cassandra into Josephine's collar, her voice catching, and then finally, reluctantly, lets go. The elegant golden collar will be stained, but it can be cleaned; it does not matter.

"I know," says Josephine, her eyes shining, and kisses her hand, and then takes Cassandra's face between her palms and kisses her again, tenderly, and opens her hands and lets her go.

There are no stars now; the sky roils with darkness, and the Breach is the only light. She joins the Inquisitor and the others, and they step forward.

*           *           *

It is spring. Cassandra thinks that perhaps the worst is over, if not the most tiresome problems; Corypheus is gone, though along with too many others. The companions and advisors and all the inhabitants of Skyhold laugh and celebrate, and mourn. It has been a victory, but it is not without cost, and it is not final; too much has been destroyed and too many unanswered questions remain. In the absence of a common enemy, divisions have begun to show, and the Inquisitor has been seen with her head in her hands far too often. She sometimes seems like a ghost as she drifts through the keep, her belief in their victory seeming tentative and insubstantial as she deals with the aftermath.

Leliana will ascend the Sunburst Throne. Cassandra is both pleased and worried; she thinks that many of the changes Leliana proposes are good, but also that they will provoke resistance; she doubts that there will truly be peace for some time to come, if ever. Cassandra herself will rebuild the Seekers and try to repair the damage they have done; she hopes that both will be possible. But she has spoken with Leliana, and they are in agreement about many things and will work together, and both she and the new Divine will have the support of the Inquisition, and that will help.

There is a bright star on the horizon, brilliant over the mountains, and others are appearing in the sky as it shifts from indigo to darkness. Cassandra climbs the stairs to their quarters, limping; the wound she took in the last battle still pains her, but she has worked at it stubbornly, for she will climb these stairs, again and again. She will not be trapped in their apartment by her injury, and she will not allow it to prevent her return.

She _will_ climb these stairs, and there is nothing to stop her, and Josephine waits at the top, with her smile lighting up like the brilliant stars across the night sky, showing the path home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the result of an ask from [montparnasse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/montparnasse/), who asked for Cassandra/Josephine and gave me two prompts: "Each time we climb the stairs, something changes" and "the passage of time as it varies by season." Thank you!
> 
> (I couldn't decide which to use, so I went for both and tossed the stars in as icing.)
> 
> I have no idea how much time canon says passes during the events in Inquisition, but what the heck. This required a set of seasons, seasons it gets.


End file.
